


Satellite Dreams and Jet Fuel Nightmares

by Skeletons_to_Ashes



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 03:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10402461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeletons_to_Ashes/pseuds/Skeletons_to_Ashes
Summary: “Keith?” Shiro mumbles in a hoarse, groggy whisper that makes Keith’s heart stall while he wonders how long its been since he’s seen Shiro so unguarded and vulnerable. A year. It stings.Instead of shying away, Keith slides his hand down the remainder of Shiro’s arm, and slots his slender fingers between Shiro’s mechanical ones. The smile that creeps onto Shiro’s features as he squeezes Keith’s hand in return is weary and war-worn and nothing like the blinding grin that once filled Keith’s days without a second thought. That smile died a long time ago, Keith thinks as he runs his thumb along the lumpy keys of Shiro's fake knuckles like they're a map of distant galaxies he kissed once in a dream when he was still a wide-eyed child that believed in glory-bond fairytales.OrA drabble that depicts a night Keith and Shiro share together after becoming paladins of Voltron.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in Voltron Hell and I'm complete trash for Sheith. I have no regrets (other than the fact that I wanted this drabble to be around 3k, and, well, it's clearly not). Honestly, I hope this makes sense. I just wanted to write something that would explore their relationship after they've gotten used to being paladins. This assumes they were dating pre-Kerberos, and maintained that relationship after being reunited (also assumes they share a room in the castle).

The soft, subdued drone of the castle’s engines burned against the teen's ears like a wildfire when they slowly coaxed him from a dreamless slumber. Heavy eyelids peel back to reveal lazy violet irises that crinkle when his lips roll downwards into a quiet yawn that sounds more like an agitated sigh than anything else. In the dim light of the compact room, Keith can just barely make out the looming form of the ceiling overhead, but he can’t count the deep scars that line the walls or the awkward dents that are buried up there somewhere when he searches for them. Even when he squints through the darkness and balls his hands into loose fists around the thin, cotton sheets wrapped about his restless legs he can’t find them. He knows they’re there, though, he was present when Shiro, in vivid, feverish confusion and nightmarish flashbacks, had prematurely marred the walls of a room that had been immaculate for some ten thousand years. It wasn’t that long ago; Keith tries to convince himself in the eerie silence, but the memories of their first few days on this journey still hit a sour note when they rear their ugly heads in his mind. He’ll never forget the way his chest clenched so tightly around his heart he had been convinced it might just explode from the pressure, or and how his lungs had collapsed inwards with dread that seemingly distant night so very long ago. More than all of that, though, was just much weight the feeling of helplessness had carried when it had been pushing down on him in quite the same way an entire planet would. 

He still feels that way when he rolls onto his side; ribs sore from their last scuffle with the Galra, and spots the deep bags etched beneath Shiro’s eyes, or when he notices how Shiro looks like he’s aged ten years in the meager one they had spent apart. Keith can count the bruises, bumps, and lines upon the older man’s face when he wiggles closer; he swears he finds a new one each night. And it’s enough to bring on that awful wave of helplessness all over again. So he forces himself to focus on the gentle rise and fall of Shiro’s chest beneath the blanket instead. It’s the steadiest he’s seen the other man breathe since he carved him out of leather straps what might as well have been centuries ago. The innocent curtain the sheet provides shatters with the constant motion of the other man's chest and slowly cascades down Shiro’s muscular frame. When he dares to let his eyes wander, Keith can spot a dozen scars scattered about Shiro's bare skin. Some are old; colored a dull brown and matted up in an ugly mass of lumpy muscles. Some are new; still an angry red when they throb each time Shiro moves. Some Keith can even remember Shiro getting at the Galaxy Garrison, and others he hasn’t been told the story of just yet. Still, the discolored and contorted skin hooked painfully around the callous metal of Shiro’s robotic arm always draws Keith in. Even with the castle’s constant buzzing he can hear the faint hum of the gears within the bizarre machine ticking away, and he swallows the lump that forms in his throat whenever he looks at the lifeless object that’s replaced the arm he had once memorized every detail of. 

Untangling his fingers from the sheet, he reached out a trembling hand to settle the hard pads of his fingers against the cold steel of Shiro’s arm. Slowly, he dragged them down its sleek form; digits tracing out the lines and dents that compose the object like he’s making a mental map of everything that’s changed since he had last touched Shiro like this. It’s not smooth against his fingers like it probably should be; it’s rigid and sharp beneath his palm, sending a shiver down Keith's exposed back, but he doesn’t tear his hand away from it. This thing is still a part of Shiro and no matter how much Keith hates its presence, he wants to adore it; wants to accept it like he’s come to accept the ugly marks that paint Shiro’s body all sorts of wounded. 

He feels the metal heat beneath his touch, and his heart lurches into his throat before he can peel his gaze away from the purple light fizzing away beneath the pristine plate that marked Shiro’s palm in order to look at the older man’s face. The scar on Shiro's nose wrinkled slightly as he willed his eyes open beneath wayward strands of white locks that crept into his line of vision in way that was only endearing to Keith in the middle of the night. And Keith knows he’s sleep-deprived and dream-kissed, but he can’t stop his heart from skipping a beat when Shiro looks at him with sluggish determination and the delayed impact of a sloppy groan. 

“Keith?” Shiro mumbles in a hoarse, groggy whisper that makes Keith’s heart stall while he wonders how long its been since he’s seen Shiro so unguarded and vulnerable. A year. It stings. 

Instead of shying away, Keith slides his hand down the remainder of Shiro’s arm, and slots his slender fingers between Shiro’s mechanical ones. The smile that creeps onto Shiro’s features as he squeezes Keith’s hand in return is weary and war-worn and nothing like the blinding grin that once filled Keith’s days without a second thought. That smile died a long time ago, Keith thinks as he runs his thumb along the lumpy keys of Shiro's fake knuckles like they're a map of distant galaxies Keith kissed once in a dream when he was still a wide-eyed child that believed in glory-bond fairytales. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.” Keith's voice is raspy and hoarse in the meager space between them, as if it's spent the better part of the night locked within his throat while swallowing too many heartfelt words and choking on even more unspoken promises. 

“It's all right, Keith,” Shiro says like he enjoys the way the sound of other man's name feels as it graces his tongue and kicks up wayward strands of black hair along the off-white sheet. But there's a hidden I'm not the reason you're still awake, right? tucked away within those words that isn't lost on Keith; nothing ever is anymore. So Keith musters up a weak, half-lipped smile to reassure Shiro like he always does, but each time he tries the corners of his lips catch on his cheeks and it gets all the more unbearable to even bother with it. He's almost convinced one day it'll leave behind scars. 

“What were you dreaming about?” Keith mumbles, if only to keep the silence from eating away at him; to bite back the thoughts that remind him there was skin where his fingers rest within Shiro's palm once. Skin that was warm and damp and alive. And the metal's alive, he thinks, but it's not the same as the veins he once traced out beneath the swollen, sweltering heat of a star-touched sky in the middle of a desert that felt like home; the ones he had committed to memory, and stored there months after Shiro was gone. He won't let the way it eats him up inside, or the way it twists in his gut like the blade of a dull knife digging an unbearably slow fissure through his muscles show because he knows Shiro's trying his best. They're both trying. 

So instead Keith blinks back wet lashes and too many sleepless nights to shift just a bit closer to the other man (but not too close; never too close), but enough to feel the heat of Shiro's even breaths beat against his cheeks because it's been too long since he's been able to count them in time with his own heartbeat. 

Shiro takes a deep, shuddering breath, and he knows Keith must realize he's treading on a thin line between being too close and not close enough all at once, but never does the way his fingers curl about Keith's (too gentle; too careful like he's some sort of monster that might snap them in half if he tries to hold them too tightly) falter. “Nothing.”Somehow that single word is as deafening as the roar of Red when Keith's a mixture of pissed off and desperate and she's livid. Maybe even more so, because Keith knows Shiro's telling the truth. There's nothing in the world that could lull Shiro into such an innocent, fit-less slumber other than nothing itself, even if that realization digs that knife just a bit deeper into Keith's stomach.

He must have let a frown contort his features because he can see the familiar way Shiro's brows knit together, and how his jaw clenches whenever he's afraid he's admitted too much. He doesn't mean to, but Shiro's already dislodging his good arm from where it had been resting upon his chest and turning onto his side in order to fully face Keith; his fingers reaching out to ghost a meek touch along Keith's forehead; sweeping aside bangs Keith hasn't bothered to cut in weeks because, well, it's not like they had the time when they were fighting a war. His fingers are back down on the sheets between them in seconds, though, because it's been a dozen months since Shiro has touched Keith so casually and Keith can tell he's terrified. No matter how many peppery touches and lingering caresses Keith begins, Shiro somehow still believes he's too damaged to embrace Keith in the same way he used to. 

And Shiro knows he's not trying hard enough, it's why he tightens his hold on Keith's hand just a fraction while rummaging through his throat for something (anything) that can fill the void the absence of Keith's voice has left in his chest. “You should get some rest, Keith.” He's saying his name again like it's the only thing in the world that matters anymore; like it's lifeline and if he stops saying it he'll suddenly vanish. It probably is, Shiro admits to himself, as he rubs the solid, metal, pad of his thumb along the scar-torn, swollen ridges of Keith's knuckles, but it's just the shadow of a touch; something so fleeting and timid that it makes Keith want to shake him until Shiro understands everything is fine. That's counterproductive, he's aware, but the thought does cross his mind. 

“Yeah, so should you,” Keith retorts, and the words come out a bit more harshly than he had intended, but he's spent the past few quintents and hundreds of vargas (he thinks; he's still not used to this gibberish timescale that makes his head spin) blurry-eyed and bursting at the seams because this has been one hell of an adventure that just keeps taking more and more of him as it goes along. He's lost count of the battles; the ships he's shot down and the lives he's taken, and he knows he's on edge and fried from it all, but he also knows Shiro isn't better off. He might even be worse off because at least this level of wired is expected from Keith. Shiro, though, Shiro has to keep pretending he's fine and swallowing his tongue until he's blue in the face from choking on his own lies. 

Shiro, for his part, ignores the sting of Keith's words. Some days its enough to just hear the younger's voice and know he's made it through another slew of battles that have mixed together until they feel as distant as Earth and as foreign as the word home is to him now. The thought leaves a bitter aftertaste in Shiro's throat when he swallows it with the same grace that Pidge has at seven in the morning: none at all. 

“Keith,”There Shiro goes again, and Keith swears if he hears his name one more time tonight his heart might just implode and he might actually shake Shiro until common sense clicks back into place in that elaborate head of his. “Do you-”It's gone before it can leave Shiro's chapped, dry lips, but Keith knows where it was going; where it always goes when it's just a little past midnight and the days have become weeks in the blink of a water-logged, sleep-deprived eye. Do you regret saving me? Have I made you regret loving me? Would you rather be back home? Do you miss what we had? Do you hate me for what I've become? And a thousand other questions Shiro's only ever had the courage to ask him when they're separated by stars and are only fuzzy images on the monitors of the galaxy's most powerful weapons. Shiro always seems ask them at times when things get too close for comfort and there's blood in their mouths; when Shiro thinks they might just die this time. 

A sigh; reluctant and unyielding, brushes against the white locks that hang (a bit too long) in front of Shiro's eyes. They've had this argument at least a dozen times before, but Keith's too tired to snap at the unspoken words tonight because Shiro's some convoluted mess of organs and thoughts and heartbeats that all scream the same sad story and bitter memories because he's human. And sometimes Keith forgets that; when he's lost in days painted a dusty brown in the mundane halls of the Garrison when you can't and I can had meant the exact same thing. Back when a busted lip and black eye were just accessories to brag about because no one had battle scars just yet, and everyone was beaming with glorified dreams of war. Way back; years ago, when Shiro's smile could ignite a thousand different emotions in him, and his skin was as clear as the crystal waters that existed only in fantasy novels. Now, when Shiro looks at him; lips twisted into this painful half-smile that's full of too much regret and too much trying, reality hits hard because you can't and I can don't mean the same thing anymore. Now battle scars are a sobering reminder that they lived to see another day, and Shiro will never smile like he used to. 

“Shiro,” Keith drawls like the other man's name is a memorized verse to a well-loved song, but it's more than that, and Keith wishes he had the sentiment to express that but he's never been good with words before. “Stop worrying so much.”He knows it's not what Shiro wants to hear; it's not even what he needs to hear, but in the low, constant hum that fills the room with an alien noise, it's all he can manage without spilling his heart out; without prying open his guts and bleeding out before a beaten, exhausted stare that's seen far too many victims to even flinch anymore.

But Shiro doesn't cave easily, instead the scar on his nose crinkles when he frowns and the mark looks like a fissure on a dying planet when his eyes drop to where their hands are still so effortlessly connected. He stares at his mechanical fingers like they're not his at all, and like he wants nothing more than to slice them off just to make him feel slightly less like a machine. “I'm sorry,”Shiro spits out. And Keith's knee-jerk reaction is to take those damnable words and shove them back down Shiro's throat until they're so lodged within his stomach that he'll never be able to cough them back out again. He can't, of course, but the searing heat of an ill-contained huff heaves through his nostrils in the budding anger that seeps into his very fingertips.

And it's not Shiro's fault he's like this; it's not either of their fault that they're like this, but Keith's always hated intangible things because he can't shoot them down or chase them away when Shiro's hurting. But he never dreamed he would hate the words I'm sorry even half as much as he does now because they're words Shiro's falls back to when he wants the conversation to end; when it spirals down a road that makes him uncomfortable and he's too noble to admit he's not strong enough to hear whatever's coming next. Keith's frustrated; frustrated enough to feel his grip around Shiro's fingers tighten and the way the sheet pills up within a fist he wasn't even aware he had formed. 

“Shiro,”And, this time, when the name falls from his lips it's pleading and tender and touched just like it should be. Through red-lined vision and long lashes Keith can see the smile that pricks at the corners of Shiro's lips like he's never been so fond of another voice in his entire life; that he finds the very idea of Keith lecturing him somehow endearing even when Keith's tone is always a bit too harsh or a bit too subdued for his own good. 

Unfolding his fingers from the sheet he'd unknowingly abused, Keith presses his palm to the lumpy surface of the mattress in order to push himself up onto curled legs that dig through the stuffing into the metal framework below. Leaning forward over Shiro just slightly (never enough to crowd him because he never wants Shiro to fell trapped again), he digs their conjoined hands from the messy sheets to press the solid, heavy frame of Shiro's metal hand against his chest. And he shivers slightly at how it feels against his bare skin that's been neatly tucked away beneath the safety of a blanket for the past few hours. He holds it steady regardless; pressing Shiro's palm hard enough against his skin that Shiro can feel the bumpy indents of Keith's ribcage beneath it. For a moment, Shiro flexes his fingers, and allows their sensitive, metal tips to dig into Keith's chest so he can feel the bones all the better, but he stops as soon as he feels the steady, rhythmic drum of Keith's heart as it thumps away at the chest that has taken too many falls and suffered through too many doubts to be entirely whole. 

“Shiro,” Keith repeats, “Shiro, I'm alive,” and the words have never tasted so sour and sharp in his mouth before, but he chokes them out with a confidence that surprises even him. “So are you,” he adds, and those ones taste like flying used to feel: free and unhinged. “We all are.” And there's relief in that, but he can't help wondering what the others must feel when they have to repeat these words to themselves each night just to remain sane. “And as long as we're still alive, I'll fight for you; with you, no matter what happens. I trust you, Shiro.”

Keith can feel the way rough metal (worn from too many fights and too many nightmares) curls against his delicate skin, and leaves rosy, raw marks where they drag along the length of his wild heart, but he doesn't flinch, even if his bent knees ache from the pressure of the metal wires of the bed pushing back at them. Not even when Shiro's fingers slowly contort into a warm, humming fist does Keith so much as glance wearily at the bruises bubbling up in the center of his chest. He can feel them; oh hell can he feel them, but it's nothing compared to the way Shiro's expression melts for him. Shiro's war-wagged eyes soften into something only distantly scared, his brows settle back down from their seemingly permanent worry-lines that make him look decades older than he is, and his chapped, sandpaper lips ease from that disgustingly fake smile Keith's always hated into something more genuine. It couldn't light up a room; it's only the small flicker of a dying candle, but it's enough to completely illuminate Keith. 

And it's hard for Shiro to look up at Keith through heavy, bogged-down lashes that kiss deep bags that might as well be bruises by now without his chest swelling with a painful fondness that makes him regret the time they spent apart. It reminds him neither one of them is who they were when they met. Shiro isn't a model student anymore; entirely whole and confident with a powerful voice that could captivate even the most unwilling of audiences. Keith isn't a die-hard prodigy with too much daring and not enough respect; who can't muster up the courage to say I'm a little bit broken too. Sometimes, Shiro forgets that, or rather, he dreams they could return to days when he thought his life couldn't get any more complex and his biggest problem was how Keith was on the verge of earning him a failing grade for making him spare instead of study. Looking back, they were young, stupid, and too caught up within themselves to acknowledge the problems that were always a stone throw away. And it's silly to yearn for something so inane, but a part of Shiro's heart will always piece together images of Keith's reckless grins and mundane dares until they fill in the parts of himself that are missing because those memories are all Shiro can hold onto some days. 

Easing the pressure he's unknowingly applying to Keith's chest, Shiro musters up what little strength his sore muscles and exhausted limbs can conjure up to heft himself onto his knees before Keith. They're almost the same height now, he notes, or maybe Keith just seems bigger and he's somehow gotten smaller now. But Shiro fishes through the tangled web of sheets for Keith's free hand and pries it from where it's wrapped too tightly around 10,000-year-old cotton. Brushing warm, stiff fingertips along Keith's knuckles he traces intricate shapes and lines upon the younger's skin until he can wrap his hand around Keith's wrist. He can still feel the indents left behind by gloves Keith wears too tight and far too often. Carefully bringing their hands upwards, Shiro mirrors the motion, sprawling out Keith's fingers overtop his beating heart and shudders that the surge of heat that flutters through his body; bare skin touching bare skin. He knows Keith's seen the scar there a hundred times over, but he feels the way his lungs hitch when Keith's fingers rub fondly along the twisted, damaged skin anyway. 

Shiro got that one while they were still at the Garrison. He had let Keith borrow his hover bike for the day because the younger man had gotten into a fight and was still seething by the time he had stormed his way down the hall to Shiro's room. At that moment in time, Shiro had convinced himself it would help Keith cool off, but in the end he came out of their high-speed, uncontrolled ride with an incredibly distressed freshmen, a few new scratches on the bike, and a blood-soaked shirt that looked almost comical next the red of the bike and Keith's jacket. It had been awful at the time, but now, when he thinks back about it, he has to force down the small hiccup of a laugh that always tries to escape at the memory. 

“Thank you, Keith,”Shiro sighs. It must be nearing one in the morning, but Keith feels like it's noon all over again and his eyes are strained from staring at the sun too long, but his heart is still pumping a thousand miles a minute anyway.“I hope I won't let you down,”Shiro builds up the courage to choke out. Keith feels the way Shiro's fingers coil about his wrist before the weight of those words forms a rock in the very pit of his stomach; one he knows won't dislodge easily or corrode with the passing of time. 

“You won't,” Keith spits back, chapped lips twisting around the words like they're a promise rather than a simple statement, and Shiro knows they're so much more than that. It's not the eye-opening, heart-numbing smile that filled his wayward days at the Garrison that eases it's way onto Shiro's features and crinkles that damnable scar across the bridge of his nose; there are no galaxies exploding in his dulled eyes or even planets forming upon his skin where dimples once found a home. It's almost close enough, though, when it's tucked behind a bland wall that's seen almost as much wear and tear as Shiro himself and lodged between a dry throat and a broken spirit. 

Keith wants to gather up all of the pieces that complete Shiro and fit them back together, but he knows too many are shattered, even more were lost along the way, and they'll never fit back together quiet the same way they used to anyway. So, he does the only thing he can do at one in the morning with too many bruises poking at his rip cage, and too many demons crawling up his bare spine, and leans forward. Easing the hard metal of Shiro's hand back with his chest until he's close enough to smell the grease and blood and sweat that still lingers from the day's battle on Shiro's trembling throat, and too close to notice that Shiro's fingers have curled enough to leave behind wispy trails of oil upon his skin. It's nearly enough to choke Keith on vile memories and bile words that threaten to pour from his mouth like vomit, but he swallows the shallow sickness like it's just another bad pill. 

Keith knows he must smell of smoke and fire and gunpowder, but his lashes flutter when Shiro's eyes slip shut with a trust that belongs to Keith and Keith alone, even if the thought leaves yet another knick on his abused heart. Tilting his head slowly, gently, he bridges the gap Shiro's so carefully constructed between them to roughly press his lips against Shiro's. The heat tastes like led and poison when it spills out along the length of his tongue in a breathy stutter that leaves Shiro's mouth quaking against his. The sound of their tangled lips doesn't click like sone kind of key undoing an ancient lock, or feel like the birth of a thousand stars exploding where tender flesh touches a bit too desperately. It never has, but it's warm like home should be and it's safe like the feeling of Red's controls against the popped blisters on Keith's palms. And Keith doesn't know anything that grounds him in quite the same way as Shiro's all too tentative touches do. But he leans in like it'll be the last time, because it could be, to catch plump, sore lips between his teeth just to make Shiro heave out butterfly gasps against his own in the hope that they'll leave behind marks so he'll never forget the sensation of Shiro's mouth on his as long (or short) as he lives.

Keith can't breathe and his lungs ache almost as badly as his knees, but he doesn't relent; it's a dull pain compared to the fears that eat away at the very back of his mind. Yet Shiro's hands are trembling against his skin and his lips feel numb and blue where they're plastered to Keith's, but Keith still doesn't want to pull away just yet; doesn't care if he sufficates here and now, or even that his lungs are twisting in a thousand different directions. It's Shiro who gives in first, ungracefully yanking their mouths apart to quell the drumming of his heart and the throbbing of his lungs. Keith smiles, just the bare flicker of a dusty old laugh biting at his throat before it slips out beside a pant. 

“What? Are you getting too old for this?” Keith huffed, a bitter sting nudging at the corners of his eyes as his lips pulled back into a smile that yanked whatever air Shiro had managed to gulp down back up his throat. And the playful remark was just another excuse to hide behind when Keith's mind was reeling with memories he both despised and cherished. But God they couldn't change how much he adored Shiro; how he fell more in love with this man every quiet moment they spent together, like he was 16 and stupid all over again, and kissing him again felt like running barefoot in the first snow of the season. He probably looked it too, with the way his face flushed and his chest constricted. 

“You think you're pretty funny, don't you?” Shiro mocked, and Keith could hear the way his stern voice cracked beneath the words. 

“Yeah, actually, I know I am,” Keith cooed, sliding his hands up Shiro's chest to wrap his arms loosely about Shiro's neck. And if his fingertips didn't dig into the scar there; didn't feel the way Shiro's skin contorted beneath his nails or how this mark was a stranger to him, he could have lost himself right then and there, in the bliss of their joined breathes and inane banter. “What are you gonna do about it?” He says instead of giving voice to the concern welling up within his heart. 

Keith hears the creak of the aged bed before he feels Shiro's lips settle against his again; puffy and timid and kissed tender where they touch, but he leans into it anyway. Keith doesn't think he could ever get sick of their weight upon his mouth or the iron-scented and awkwardly sweet taste of Shiro's breath dancing along his tongue. Keith's heavy eyelids drift shut against the backdrop of Shiro's smile, and he loses himself in the moment; dull, jagged nails digging shallow trenches into the mighty ridges of Shiro's muscular shoulders that feel far more taught than Keith could ever recall in the time they had spent together at the Garrison what might as well have been a lifetime ago. It's only the gentle, slopping heat of Shiro's breath that wiggles his mind away from unwanted thoughts just long enough for Keith to feel Shiro lean into him, curving his spine gently downwards until the protruding bumps of Keith's back are digging into the firm mattress below. His lungs scream in a way that only Shiro knows when he's above Keith and sucking the oxygen straight from his body like a starved animal. The familiar heat of Shiro's firm legs on either side of Keith's hips is not daunting but rather comforting in its realness. So Keith sucks in the small whimper that threatens to purr against Shiro's lips when Shiro's fingers begin to trail down Keith's chest; fingertips ghosting over scars and bumps like they're ugly little demons just waiting to devour him. To Shiro, Keith thinks, they might just be. 

The taste of Shiro's mouth on his; too metallic and dry when its weaved in with the all too careful touches that roam over his exposed body feels like some sort of satellite dream and a jet fueled nightmare all at once. It's not what their caresses and comfortable kisses used to be, but it's what they've become in the dead of space with the company of a pipe dream and an impossible mission. 

“This,” he feels Shiro's voice vibrate deep within his throat more than he actually hears the word as it tumbles out against his lips, and Keith can feel himself shudder beneath its heat.. But the cold steel of Shiro's fingers makes him shiver when they melt against his side. There's a sentence somewhere lodged in Keith's throat, but Shiro steals it right from his tongue when those fingers dance circles against his frigid skin and rip a soft, subdued bubble of laughter from Keith's mouth in their place. 

“Shiro,” Keith purses his lips trying to swallow the laughter with burning eyes, and tears pricking hotly at their corners before his eyelids slip shut and his chest swells enough to burst with the most innocent laugh that's probably graced these walls in the past 10,000 years. “Shiro!”But the name is lost somewhere between his light-hearted cough and the echo of his own laughter as it bounces freely against the walls. He's certain he would have kicked Shiro by now if not for the soft pressure he can feel pinning down his knees to prevent him from doing just that. With his fingers tangled in the short strands of Shiro's hair, he tears his puffy lips from Shiro's to bury his cherry-red cheeks into the crux of Shiro's neck. “Okay, okay, you win,” Keith calls out in a breathless pant; it's just this little pathetic whisper that can barely be heard where it's nestled between his poorly suppressed laughs. 

He can't see Shiro smile as he pulls his fingers away from Keith's side to snake them upwards in order to cradle Keith's head within his calloused palms, or the way Shiro's lips drop when he leans down to settle his forehead against Keith's shoulder. But he loosens his grip on Shiro's neck regardless, allowing his hands to run down the older man's back where they find their home again where his spine dips. 

“Keith,” Shiro's back to saying his name in that way again, and Keith pries his eyes back open to watch the steady rise and fall of Shiro's back when he breathes to remind himself that they're both still alive. “You mean so much to me. ”Keith can feel the lump as it climbs it's way up his throat, and makes his Adam's apple bop against Shiro's ear when he swallows the stream of regret that's on the verge of spewing from his mouth. Shiro's voice has never sounded as weak as it does when it's admitting fears against tangled sheets in the middle of the night for only Keith to hear. Keith has to bite back the urge to shout everything he's ever felt towards the other man because he's not a poet like Shiro is who can convey the entire world in a simple sentence. It would take him too many years; too many lifetimes just to say I love you in a way that could properly express just how much he adores Shiro, but Shiro does it so easily. “I'm glad you're here,” Shiro exhales before forcing his parched tongue to form the words, “Keith, please, stay with me.”

It's a desperate plea that Keith's heard a dozen times before, but it never makes Shiro look any less vulnerable when he knows these words are meant to replace Please don't die because Shiro's always been too afraid to say them. His hold on the older man tightens like he's trying to confirm that Shiro's here; that he hasn't somehow vanished since the last time Keith had checked. Keith won't admit it, but nothing terrifies him more than losing Shiro again. 

Keith's too much a coward to say the words Please don't leave me, so all he can do it settle his head against Shiro's hand and will a faded smile upon his cracked lips as he strokes his fingers along Shiro's back to ease him down upon his body. Chest to chest, he can feel the steady thump of Shiro's heart as it hammers away against his own all over again. And he can take comfort in the way Shiro's body radiates heat and smells like old detergent because it proves they've survived through everything so far, and they've done it together. It seems so silly to find purpose in the way Keith can rub his thumbs numbly into Shiro's side and cling to the older man's heat like it's the only fire for miles. But he does anyway. Maybe it's because Keith's never been brave enough to tell Shiro he's been his entire world since the day they had met and Kerberos hadn't changed that. And Voltron, or anything else, wouldn't either. He's never loved someone like he loves Shiro. He can't bring himself to confess such intimate words, though, when his head is heavy with thoughts of the future and the not so distant past, but, somehow, he knows Shiro will understand.

“I will, Shiro.”Keith croaks, holding Shiro as tight as he can while leaning his face into the soft texture of the other man's hair, lips ghosting over the white bangs he hates almost as much as the mechanical arm that is still whirling away behind his head. “I will.”


End file.
